


I Don't Fuck with Your Tone

by SeemsRatherSketchy



Series: I'll Be Your Mirror [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Boys In Love, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Minor Violence, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut, can't believe that patrick tag was a thing but it is very appropriate, richie does a hit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeemsRatherSketchy/pseuds/SeemsRatherSketchy
Summary: “Say, Richie, d’you remember that time in junior year when you got a week of detention for beating up Patrick Hockstetter?” Stan asked.From across the small dorm room, Richie looked upside-down at Stan from his bottom bunk.“Yeah, why?”“Every time I think about it, I get this insatiable urge to fuck your brains out.” Stan intoned, nonchalantly.Richie fell off the bed.Or: In junior year, Richie beat the tar out of Patrick Hockstetter for touching Stan. Three years later Stan brings it up because the thought of it makes him want to do things to Richie.Companion piece to I'll Be Your Mirror. You do not have to have read that one to get this, but in my mind it's all in the same timeline.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Series: I'll Be Your Mirror [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573078
Comments: 6
Kudos: 171





	1. The Incident

**3 Years Ago**

Stan sniffled. The chill in the air was growing more pronounced every day as September faded into October, and his sinuses noticed. Despite his body’s general resistance to being outdoors when it got this cold, he was still planning to walk down to the quarry and birdwatch just as soon as he found the Polaroid camera in his locker. Stan put his textbooks away neatly, arranged all his binders, and then gently extracted his prized possession from its perch atop a stack of graded assignments. Usually he would never bring something so important to him to the cageless zoo that was Derry High, but he knew that if he went back home to get his camera and then headed to the quarry, he would miss the last precious hour of waning daylight.

  
The dismissal bell had rung five minutes ago at least, and though a few students were still milling around in the hall, he figured he would be able to leave without incident. Being a junior meant that he wasn’t bullied as much in comparison to his elementary and middle school days; however, goons like Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter still occasionally haunted his steps. Unlike Ben who’d lost weight, or Richie who’d grown tall, he was still Jewish, and for some reason idiots like those two had a problem with it. Luckily, they mostly just spat half-baked, ignorant comments at him if he happened to walk by in the halls, so Stan had gotten good at ignoring them and even tuning them out completely.

  
Perhaps he should have realized that this peace was bound to be broken at some point. Stan’s life just seemed to work that way: periods of relative, hard-earned calm always interrupted by completely novel, ridiculously troublesome circumstances. It was just his luck.

  
So, when Stan heard Patrick Hockstetter’s oily voice slither into his ears from somewhere behind him, he felt more resigned than surprised.

  
“Nice camera, Harvey Milk. Guess we’ve upgraded from ‘Jew’ to ‘queer Jew,’ huh?” Hockstetter taunted, and though Stan wasn’t looking at him, he could almost see the snakelike grin on Hockstetter’s face. For a second, Stan considered just walking away, but a wave of intense vitriol suddenly bubbled up in his throat, quite out of nowhere. Stan’s pacificity left his body all at once in a single exhale. How dare Hockstetter really try and fuck with him when he was just minding his own goddamned business. How dare Hockstetter ruin his relatively nice day on a whim. The insensitivity, the blind bigotry, the years of taunting Stan had suffered at the hands of this waste of oxygen seemed to draw into a pinpoint of pure, supermassive rage in Stan’s chest in that moment. There was nothing for it: Stan had to say something. He’d had just about enough.

  
“Finally, some new material, Hockstetter. And it’s Harvey Milk, _a gay Jew!_ _Very_ clever! Kinda funny how often you call other people queers, though, don’t you think? I mean, if a neanderthal like you is actually capable of thinking. I’m beginning to wonder if all this ‘queer’ stuff is you projecting.” Stan bit out, slamming his locker shut and clicking the padlock closed, still refusing to give Hockstetter any visual acknowledgement.

  
“Hey, _hey_ , you little queer, what the fuck’re you tryin’ to say?” Hockstetter growled out, and Stan felt a large, wiry hand clamp down on his shoulder. The touch disgusted him, and before he could even moderate his response, he was spitting out venom.

  
“I meant what I said, you troglodyte. I think you know deep down that you like boys, but the only way your tiny brain can cope with your misplaced shame is to project your homosexuality onto other people. You wish you could be like Harvey Milk, but instead you’re a pathetic coward.”  
There was a pregnant pause, and Stan felt in that moment that he must’ve hit the nail on the head, because all hell broke loose. Stan had never before been grabbed and shoved so hard into his locker. Not even by Henry Bowers, whose particular brand of hillbilly bigotry made it so violence was all he knew. Hockstetter was incandescent with rage, and it translated to his iron grip on Stan’s collar and the bruises Stan knew would show up along the length of his back in the next few days.

  
“You take that back before I beat the Judaism out of you, you filthy little _fucking_ \--”

  
“ _Queer?_ Is that what I am? Because I know it’s what you are, Hockstetter.”

  
Stan was also incandescent with rage at this point, and he couldn’t even be bothered to care that he was mouthing off to a guy who was actively demonstrating how strong he was by crushing Stan against the cold metal of the lockers. Vaguely Stan registered that his toes were barely touching the ground, and that a padlock was digging painfully into his spine. Hockstetter was foaming at the mouth, and Stan braced himself for, potentially, the most painful beating he would ever receive.  
Stan knew he couldn’t get physical and fight -- he refused to be disqualified from achieving Eagle Scout after working so hard for it-- but he sure as hell wasn’t going to give Hockstetter the satisfaction of showing even an inkling of fear. The bully was winding up for a teeth-shattering punch, and Stan breathed deeply, but refused to break eye contact with him. There was something polluting the pure anger burning in Hockstetter’s eyes, and it looked like shame to Stan. At the end of this, at least he could say his eyes didn’t mirror that self-hatred, even as he watched Hockstetter’s fist sailing towards his face.

  
But that punch never landed.

  
In a flurry of sound and movement, thundering steps crashed down the hallway and a familiar voice shouted Stan’s name. Hockstetter was yanked backwards, releasing Stan from his white-knuckled grip. There was the sound of angry shouting, but Stan couldn’t make it out because of the adrenaline-induced roaring in his ears. Stan stumbled, but eventually landed on his feet, and looked up to see who his saviour was.

  
The world came into sharp focus and that deafening roar in his ears was silenced.

  
It was Richie.

  
Stan was never more in awe of his best friend than he was in that moment. If Stan thought Hockstetter had looked angry, it was nothing compared to the fire burning in Richie’s eyes behind his thick-rimmed spectacles. Richie threw Hockstetter to the linoleum floor of the hallway with a strength Stan hadn’t known he possessed, but probably should have. Hockstetter’s sinewy body crumpled a bit, but in seconds he hopped into a crouch, ready to get up and fight. Richie didn’t give him the chance, though, because he picked Patrick up by his shirt once more and threw him down violently a second time.

  
“Say you’re fucking sorry to him, you fucking coward!” Richie yelled at Patrick, all the while picking him up by the front of his shirt a third time. Hockstetter snarled and opened his mouth to say something else, but Richie squarely punched him in his wide, serpentine mouth before he could spit out a single word.

  
“ _Say. You’re. Sorry_. I’m not fucking around, Hockstetter!” Richie barked, shaking the other boy and punching him again, this time aiming his fist at Hockstetter’s long, thin nose. There was a sickening crunch, and blood poured from Patrick’s nostrils. Tears of pain filled Hockstetter’s bloodshot eyes. Still, though, he refused to yield to Richie’s demand.

  
Stan was in total shock at this side of Richie: one he’d seen before, but not nearly to this extent. He knew Richie cared about his friends and wanted to protect them, but the bloody vengeance searing into Hockstetter from Richie’s eyes was staggering in its intensity. Stan almost wanted to stop him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything but stare. The few students milling around in the hall seemed to feel the same way, some taking in the scene with horror, and some with admiration. Stan himself teetered upon a fence of emotions: one half of him felt purely dumbstruck, while the other half felt like a nebulous cloud of fluttering butterflies in his chest that Stan could only guess was fear mixed with something he could not yet name.

  
“ _Say it!_ ” Richie roared again, smashing Patrick against the lockers like the bully had done to Stan, “How’s that fucking feel, you piece of shit? Don’t you fucking touch him! Say you’re fucking sorry, and swear you’ll never lay one of your slimy fingers on him ever again! _Say you’re fucking sorry!_ ”

  
Hockstetter was struggling hard, clawing at Richie’s arm where it clenched a fistful of his t-shirt, but he couldn’t escape. Richie had three inches on him, and apparently a massive amount of hidden strength. Patrick took too long to respond, so Richie socked him hard in the stomach, the way Hockstetter had once done to Ben in the seventh grade. Hockstetter coughed in pain, but it still didn’t sound enough like an apology to Richie, so he threw one last devastating punch that hit smack-dab on the bone of Patrick’s wan cheek. Stan winced, and opened his mouth to call out to Richie, but Hockstetter’s voice finally quivered out of his bruised, bloodied face.

  
“S-sorry! I’m sorry! Please s-stop! Lemme go! I’m fucking sorry, okay?! I’ll leave him alone, I promise!” Hockstetter sobbed out, and Stan distantly registered that the former big bad bully was crying in fear. Perhaps this was the first taste of his own medicine the boy had ever received.

  
At length, Richie narrowed his eyes behind his glasses, and all at once his body relaxed and he dropped Hockstetter unceremoniously.

You’d better.” Richie uttered, and his tone of voice was truly menacing.

  
The teacher that stormed up to both boys after hearing the commotion was also quite menacing. Mr. Dorn was, to say the least, not pleased at the spectacle.  
After seeing the state of Hockstetter, Stan, and Richie, and hearing the stories of a few student witnesses and the combatants themselves, Richie was lucky to come out of the fight with just a week of detention for the brutal beating he’d given Hockstetter. Hockstetter was lucky for the mere three day detention he was given for harassing Stan.

  
Stan was lucky to have Richie.

  
Stan told Richie as much while he and Hockstetter were being escorted away by Mr. Dorn, and that thoroughly goofy, affectionate grin Richie sent him in reply settled in Stan’s chest like loose feathers drifting to the ground on a gentle current of air.

  
Hockstetter never dared to even look at Stan again.

**Present Day**

“Say, Richie, d’you remember that time in junior year when you got a week of detention for beating up Patrick Hockstetter?” Stan asked, seemingly apropos of nothing. He didn’t look up from his environmental biology textbook, and continued to diligently take notes on its contents.

  
From across the small dorm room, Richie looked upside-down at Stan from his bottom bunk. He was hanging off the edge of it, and his black curls dangled, brushing the floor.

  
“Yeah, why?”

  
“Every time I think about it, I get this _insatiable urge_ to fuck your brains out.” Stan intoned, nonchalantly.

Richie fell off the bed.

  
Paying no mind to that particular commotion, Stan let the ensuing silence linger for a little while as he turned to the next page of his textbook. He underlined something he’d written in his meticulous notes.

  
“Hey, Richie?” Stan asked again, at length.

  
“Y-yeah?” Richie responded, voice muffled because he was still lying face down on the floor where he’d fallen.

  
“Guess what I’m thinking about _right now_?”


	2. The Smut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all smut. Turn back now if you do not wish to read it. Characters are above 18 years of age. If you are reading it... Enjoy. ;)

“Mnh, Stan!” Richie gasped, long fingers clawing at the sheets bunched under his bare back as Stan mouthed a line of kisses down his lengthy torso. 

“Mmm?” Stan hummed out against Richie’s skin, fingers slick with lube and busily stretching Richie open. 

“Fff-fuck me, for the love of G-ah!” 

Stan smirked against his lover’s heaving stomach, unhooking his fingers and pumping them in and out of Richie’s generously lubed hole once more. He nipped at the sensitive skin in the junction between Richie’s hip bone and groin, coaxing a moan out of the tall boy. Stan drew his fingers out of Richie slowly and moved up his body, peppering kisses across soft, freckled skin as he went. When he finally reached Richie’s full lips, he kissed the dark-haired boy deeply, and Richie moaned into his mouth. 

Without breaking the kiss, Stan felt around the bed next to him until he found the condom he’d laid out earlier. He ripped it open and slid it down his length, slicking the outside with the leftover lube from his fingers, and only broke their searing kiss to look Richie in the eyes as he positioned himself. 

“May I?” Stan asked demurely, gaze half-lidded and scorching. Richie swallowed hard and nodded, pleading with his eyes. 

“I’d like to hear you say it, Richie.” Stan murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of Richie’s neck. 

“I want you to fuck me so hard, Stan.” Richie said, molten and unambiguous. Stan made a sound of approval deep in his throat, and pressed against Richie’s yielding entrance. The head of his cock eased through the tight ring of muscle, and he was able to slowly slide the rest of the way in, assisted by his extensive preparation of his lover. Stan was an Eagle Scout, after all, and no stranger to being prepared.

“Ah, S-Stan!” Richie groaned, arching against Stan and driving him deeper inside. Stan winced in pleasure at the delicious pressure and heat of Richie surrounding him, and he ran his hands up the sides of Richie’s quivering thighs. When Stan’s fine-boned hands finally worked their way up to the insides of Richie’s knees, Stan gripped them firmly and hiked those long legs up. With a needy groan, Richie hooked his legs snugly over Stan’s slim, well-formed shoulders. 

Stan drank in the sight of Richie as he felt the tall boy’s walls flutter around his cock. His boy was a vision of loveliness, flushed a pretty pink across the bridge of his dappled nose and into his cheeks, inky curls draped beautifully over the crisp white sheets of the bunk bed and splayed across his freckled forehead. His full lips were red and swollen as his laboured breathing escaped them in tiny, quiet gasps. Stan almost wanted to grab his Polaroid and snap a photo. 

Richie’s spidery hands gripped Stan’s own where they rested on the outsides of his long, pale thighs. Stan turned to kiss the side of Richie’s leg lovingly, something of a habit he’d developed over the year and change they’d been intimate. It never got old, seeing his lover and best friend like this, so wrecked for him, taken apart by the person who knew him best. 

Stan snapped out of his admiration of the boy laid out before him, and shifted forward, pressing Richie’s legs down gently as he went. Richie keened, one arm snapping up to grip at the bunk’s low headrail. His other hand tightened around Stan’s wrist, knuckles flashing white with pleasure. Stan dipped his head down, sandy blonde curls just barely grazing the skin of Richie’s face. He nuzzled Richie’s cheek, reveling in the pleasant, familiar scent of him.

“Richie, baby, I’m gonna fuck you so hard you can’t remember your last name. Is that alright with you?” Stan murmured, voice low and sultry. Richie’s breath caught. 

“Fuck, Stan, I want you to plow me until I don’t remember my first name.” Richie growled out in response and ground his hips into Stan’s with feeling, impaling himself even deeper on Stan’s hardness in the process. Stan let out a choked grunt, and immediately set about granting Richie’s request. 

With violent thrusts Stan bore down into Richie over and over, sliding audibly in and out of his rosy hole, hips snapping hard and fast against Richie’s own. Richie’s weeping erection bobbed in the small space left between their bodies, and Stan felt it against his stomach each time he bottomed out inside of his lover. Richie’s breaths were ragged gasps, his voice slipping out in a constant stream of euphoric “ah, ah, ahs!” as Stan pushed into him in staccato thrusts. 

Stan snaked his hand in between them and began stroking Richie’s long cock in time with his thrusts; it was a perfect fit in his palm. 

Richie was now gripping the headrail with both hands, long arms stretched up and over his head, body and bed rocking in time with Stan’s earnest fucking. Richie’s legs, slung behind Stan’s back, bobbed up and down at the knees with each deep penetration of Stan’s thick cock. 

A harmony of grunts and gasps filled the room, accompanied by the percussive sounds of bodies meeting and a slick cock sliding in and out of an even wetter hole. All the while, Stan’s hand worked between them, jacking Richie’s cock the way he knew Richie liked it. 

“Stan, ngh, ‘m gon-ah, g-gonna- ah, ah, c-cum!” Richie managed to gasp between Stan’s firm thrusts and strokes, voice skipping with the rhythm Stan had set. His eyes were wet, swimming with pleasure-tears. Stan growled savagely and his body sped up as he, too, approached his peak.

“Fuck, Richie, I want to see you cum for me, ” Stan gritted out, leaning down and kissing Richie filthily. One of the tears of bliss glittering in Richie’s eyes slipped out and trickled down his flushed cheek. The long, keening cry he let out as he exploded with his release was muffled by Stan’s lips on his. Hot, viscous ropes of cum erupted from the tip of his cock and painted their stomachs and Stan’s hand. One errant pearl made it all the way up to the dip in Richie’s clavicle. 

Feeling the hot rush of Richie’s release, the vibration of that euphoric cry against his own lips, and the tight clench of those walls around him, Stan thrusted out his own climax deep inside of Richie, spilling into the condom with a series of cut-off moans, never breaking eye-contact. 

Both boys, still gazing into one another’s eyes, slumped into a boneless heap at the same time. Their ragged pants sounded loud in the sudden silence of the dorm room. Stan felt a rush of warm affection for the beautiful boy under him, the same beautiful boy allowing Stan’s cock to soften inside of him. 

“I love you, Richie.” came tumbling out of Stan’s mouth before he could even stop it, not that he ever had before.   
“You know I love you, too, Stan-my-man. But who is ‘Richie?’ And would you happen to know my name? The memory of it seems to have been fucked out of me.” Richie replied, and Stan looked up at him from where his sandy blonde head had settled in the crook of Richie’s pale neck. Richie was grinning like a maniac, and the wink he gave Stan was positively smug. 

Stan felt another warm rush of love fill his entire chest at once, and only managed to keep the unimpressed look on his face for about three seconds before he broke. He laughed in spite of himself and cupped the sides of Richie’s head with his hands, running his fingers through those downy black curls. 

“You are a downright menace whose name is chaos.” Stan said with a smile on his face, and Richie’s grin brightened a couple thousand more watts. 

“But I’m your menace.” 

“You are, indeed, my menace.” Stan agreed. He kissed Richie with all the love and affection he could muster, which was, as one might guess, quite a lot.


End file.
